


真実一路 | Path of Sincerity

by TexasDreamer01



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Mon Mothma, BAMF Obi-Wan, F/M, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Jedi Culture, Mentioned Anakin Skywalker, Mentioned Padmé Amidala, Obi-Wan Kenobi Gets a Hug, POV Obi-Wan Kenobi, Past Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-01-30 20:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21434140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/pseuds/TexasDreamer01
Summary: Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.
Relationships: Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Darth Maul, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Longshot (Star Wars), Obi-Wan Kenobi & Satine Kryze, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Yoda, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Mon Mothma
Comments: 13
Kudos: 61
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange 2019





	真実一路 | Path of Sincerity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gabriel4Sam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabriel4Sam/gifts).

> > Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.
> 
> While this is popularly attributed to Buddha, I couldn't find a precise source to confirm this. It does seems to match up, at least in spirit, to something Buddha would say, and the opportunity was too good to pass up as a way to flesh out Jedi culture.
> 
> [真実一路](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E7%9C%9F%E5%AE%9F%E4%B8%80%E8%B7%AF#Japanese)  
"(hiragana しんじついちろ, rōmaji shinjitsuichiro)", translated as "path of sincerity". Found from the the wiki for [真実](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E7%9C%9F%E5%AE%9F), chosen because of [Jisho.org's](https://jisho.org/word/%E7%9C%9F%E5%AE%9F) definition for "truth" - they give many other definitions, as well, and I found myself appreciating the nuances that have been applied to the translation, something that reflects the quote that I had initially started with.
> 
> Mando'a is accompanied by both hover text translations and a glossary in the end notes.
> 
> I've done my best to fulfill the prompt - I had not set out to start with another relationship entirely, but my attempts to scoot the setting forward mangled the plot, so this starts with The Lawless and diverges from there. Accordingly, I didn't realize that Longshot had died in canon before Satine, but I liked him so much while writing that it seemed better to keep him for the sterling company.
> 
> A huge shout-out to [Pandora151](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandora151/pseuds/Pandora151) for being awesome, and without whom this work would have had a dearth of quality.

The humming of his ship, something that usually provided a metronome to his refined – if strained – habit of calming his thoughts, was overwhelming today. Instead of the stressless background noise, the sinusoidal ticking of machinery on board was overlaid with words. It hissed _traitor_ at him, warring sentiments overlapping each other for its meaning.

_Traitor_, Obi-Wan willing to flee in the proverbial night at the first quiver to Satine’s voice despite all pulls to the contrary that were his duties to the Republic and its seemingly unending war.

_Traitor_, Mon’s voice whispered back to him, echoing in the memoried halls she had first approached him in, bruise-smudged eyes stark against the pale moon of her face a testament to the strain her findings had delivered to her.

He pressed a gloved knuckle to thin-pressed lips, willing away the waves of anxiety churning against the Force-thin defenses around his heart. Both were more fragile than he would admit to, tangled up in each other as a ballast against the rough waves that were others’ emotions. The ship’s usually gentle hum was yet another battering ram to his poise, and he pressed his eyes shut hard enough to see electric splashes of colour, the pain of it a thin filament grounding him to logic.

Obi-Wan wondered, after enough time had passed that his breathing stuttered with the force of his enforced calm, if there was a connection between the two. A Mandalore at war was a Mandalore in its normal state, the ebb and flow of its temper like the perpetual cycle of a heartbeat, life-giving vigour that propelled it into sustaining future generations.

The Republic was not so, for all that war periodically marred its peace, each bout a cataclysm that threatened to fracture the galaxy-wide assembly into blood-pricking shards. He rattled in a breath, forcing himself to exhale smoothly. (It wasn’t steady, altogether too deep and rushed to coyly name itself grace. But he tried.) It seemed this current iteration of a political earthquake was merely a swarm to the true event, if Mon was to be believed.

He believed her. Force help his faith in democracy, but he believed her. The earnestness with which she delivered her news belied a tremble of terror, landing at the same conclusions Obi-Wan had: the very ideals of democracy would be threatened by this truth’s existence, and might well be the final strike that would prevent the Republic from ever resurrecting again. It took only the meeting of glances, electric with what _could not_ be spoken, for Jedi and Senator to agree that drastic measures were necessary.

It was quite the opposite presentation that his dear Satine had given him. Even in distress, aided by long familiarity and a tumultuous, shared history, there was the subtle gleam of demand. A challenge – help me, if you dare. Her words, despite the gravity, seemed upon closer inspection yet another repartee in their decade-plus argument of their cultural differences.

There was a time where such gauntlet-throwing would have invigorated him; the issue of a challenge set his blood alight, and the battleground of words was the perfect setting by which to sharpen his chosen wits.

Now, though- now he was tired. Tired of the death by a thousand cuts, each unable to deliver the final blow that would decisively convince the other. Tired of her war, and his, and the myriad points at which they intersected. It pulled at him, the same way the Force pulled at him when his brethren were scattered at all points across the galaxy, trying – vainly, it seemed – to put out fires where they erupted.

It was this fire, the steady smolder of Mandalore’s ceaseless appetite for bloodshed on the grounds of pride and honour, that was the most difficult to put out. Satine knew this intimately, for her armor was guised in the gauzy silks of ostensible peace, sharpened words her swords of choice instead of the reliable _beskar_ that her ancestors had sworn both by and on. Peace was her new battleground, a refreshment of the political turmoils of their youth, and she had delivered merciless blows to her chosen enemies – traditional culture and traditional clans – with a precision that stripped things into her new paradigm of black and white. 

Obi-Wan sighed. At one point, she had been steeped in the _Resolnare_ much the same as any other child of Mandalore, words falling easily from her lips in the familiarity only a native language spoken over meals and illnesses could carry. It took the slaughter of her family to shake her belief in the tattered scraps of her upbringing – it was, ironically, her complete about-face that was one of the most essential of Mandalorian traits he had ever observed of her.

He supposed she felt betrayed by her people. How could one’s culture be sunken into like a warm bath, comforting and familiar, if the very waters proved treacherous? And so she had turned their values on them, poising her stiletto-sharp words to their collective throats, instituting a ceasefire that morphed into peace through her implacable iron hand. The Mandalore of today was etched deeply with her fingerprints.

It seemed also to be held together, at times, by sheer willpower – something dauntless and vaguely intimidating in the way that the mysteries of the Force often beheld to Obi-Wan. That was part of his initial attraction, he mused wryly, letting his senses dip meditatively in the shallow edges of the Force as he reminisced. She had seemed like an ethereal, indomitable spirit, a flagon of cool water where his own spirits faltered in the trying times that had been protecting the then-young woman.

They were both showing signs of age, and its relentless march stripped away what Obi-Wan had assumed would be a steadfast, loyal adoration. The veneer that charmed him so initially now siphoned off his energy, a slow trickle of goodwill being leached out by the minutiae of her court intrigues and the fluctuating influence of Death Watch. He had his own war to mind, a business of which was not so easily dropped for a holocall requesting aid in the political situations the Duchess had become mired in.

Mandalore was a key planet in an influential system. The rest of the Republic could filibuster until they were light-headed from the lack of fsteadying reason, but the fate of Mandalore was also the fate of the Republic. Privately, Obi-Wan thought that the Banking Clans could go hang, because he had observed that races the galaxy over would find a way to trade, be it in credits, Hutt gold, or something else entirely. It was the tempering of violent inclinations common to nearly all species that was the crux of the future, and Mandalore had proven herself to be a crucible for fomenting conflicts.

Commander Cody had been concerned and exasperated in equal measures, taking to the shuffling of duties as his general planned his temporary escape from the Republic’s front lines with the sardonic humor that Obi-Wan knew the man availed himself to when there were too many situations in the air. It was a self-comforting measure that Obi-Wan himself often took refuge in, hiding behind wit and brazenness that confounded the multitude of opponents he was often slated with handling.

He felt sorry to be loading burden upon burden onto his commander, but needs must, and with the rumor of Maul climbing his way through Death Watch, Satine’s situation had accordingly risen in relative importance. Obi-Wan sighed, checking once more the status of the ship’s progress. It seemed a never-ending to-do list, checking off one item only for another to take its place – and usually with the ostensibly crossed-off item rearing its head in a more convoluted manner.

It had often made Obi-Wan wonder whether there was some hand behind the chaos in his life, and while he was loathe to blame the Force – that which had often been his only and sole companion in many trials – assigning it to the Supreme Chancellor became a more sensible idea the more he allowed his thoughts to ruminate on the topic.

This was, after all, a very long journey to Mandalore.

* * *

He had fought in many battles, for many years, but there was a particular flavour to the thread of dread spiraling down to his toes that combat in Mandalore brought about. It was not only ruthlessness, but the creativity and enthusiasm that Mandalorians imbued their fighting styles with. That they habitually only fought in groups on a clan-to-clan basis meant little, for they relished the single person combat and sharpened their skills upon those brave enough to challenge them.

It had terrified him when he was younger, a padawan that had only just begun truly recovering from the emotional wounds of being a child soldier, abandoned by his mentor in a fit of- Obi-Wan still didn’t know, and he shied away from the collage of grief-ridden memories.

Now, seasoned by a war that spanned systems from one end of the galaxy to the other, it had tempered to an unhappy expectation of his objective’s difficulty borne from the experience that was one long and drawn-out campaign after another. Obi-Wan sighed, and flicked his saber on.

There was only one way to Satine – and then onward to Maul – and that was through this rather untidy mess. Obi-Wan gathered the Force around him, sinking his mind into that particular nuance of meditation that led his blade true, and ventured toward the fray.

* * *

Satine collapsing into his arms in gratitude was unexpected. His muscles still burned from the strain of battle, the Force only doing so much to alleviate the mundane burdens of physical stamina, and his mind was weary from the conglomeration of strategies and their phases being modified on the fly as he took his first in-person view of Mandalore in many years.

His thoughts adjusted to the new information of a Satine that was glad to see him, glad to see his blood-ensanguined skills put to a use directly beneficial to her. It was a startling change in demeanour from her ascendancy to the throne of Duchess, and he had to quell the bitter, dark thoughts it engendered. _So now I am useful to you? So now you appreciate martial prowess?_

_Traitor, traitor_, the other corner of his mind whispered to him, a staccato beat that was unrelenting in its reminder. He grimaced, pushing Satine off of him. They needed to get going if they wanted to restore some semblance of order to Mandalore, and Obi-Wan intended to waste no time in gathering valuable information and connections to Senator Mothma’s plans on his way to take down the head of the beast.

He thought of charming Palpatine, friend of his ex-padawan and orchestrator to the Republic’s downfall, and hurried his steps. Satine held back a surprised noise at the pace, smoothing her face into a semblance closer to his own grim and determined one.

* * *

Maul was as odious as ever, and the presence of the Sith’s brother did little to temper Obi-Wan’s distaste of him. The niggle of devil’s advocate tugging on the evidence that was genuine affection between the brothers abated the feeling little.

They volleyed words, old hands at this rivalry – Jedi Killer and Sith Killer at blows once again, a struggle that Obi-Wan faintly supposed between barbs and parries would likely make for a good story, crafting archetypes of them both. He spat an invective at Savage, throwing a push at Maul while he dove forward to strike at the brother.

Those stories obscured the unpleasant side-effects of the truth, tidying away the details that made history so interesting and convoluted. Obi-Wan never cared much for those black-and-white stories of opposing morals.

Satine, and for a moment he allowed irritation to cross his mind’s path, had been dragged into the impromptu and comparatively minuscule battleground, forcing a pause in the fight by becoming a hostage. Their shared history, an affection that still held notes of tenderness and a budding – if discarded – romance, encouraged his heart to fracture just a little bit more on the preexisting lines of stress he had added onto over the decades.

There was no good way out of this, Obi-Wan knew this to be true with a bone-deep certainty that only ever came of the Force. Someone would die.

But he would be damned if it was him. The knowledge of the Chancellor’s betrayal sat too heavily on his conscious, and for him to fall would mean the falling of the delicately-webbed coup that sat fomenting in his and other rebels’ minds. He levelled a glare at Maul, at the darksaber – crackling and dark-hole black – perched so tauntingly on the Duchess’ throat.

Obi-Wan would sacrifice this turn of battle for the war; oh, he intended to win this war. Democracy would not fall under his watch.

“To take a hostage is to admit cowardice,” He volleyed his own taunt back, paraphrasing a parable of war he had learned and learned again. Pride was Maul’s vulnerable belly, and he wasn’t so obtuse as to deny the shared flaw in his own psyche. Bleeding this wound would drain it of its infection, and the Force quivered like an instrument paused mid-note, waiting for the next step in this dance.

Maul’s saber twitched in shock, Satine’s choked gasp echoed in the Force’s waiting sway. He held steady, waiting for the inevitable reposte. The Sith would learn nothing from Obi-Wan, in pose or presence, and the seconds ticked by in a slow drag of suspense.

It was the quiet inhale, ragged with shock, from Savage that alerted Maul to his goals. He scowled, an immediate response borne of trained aggression, cycling through a blend of confusion and revulsion that Obi-Wan didn’t play along to his plans. With a noise of disgust, Satine was pushed to the ground in a tumble of skirts and surprise.

No matter, though Obi-Wan let the newest clink of locks snick into place that she had lived. It changed some things, but not, he thought, the ultimately important ones. Briefly, jadedly, Obi-Wan thought that the Duchess would be proud, sacrificing the love of one for the love of many. She had certainly lived by her own words – perhaps she would admire him for taking a nod toward her morals?

Adjusting his brow to a bemused tilt, Obi-Wan let the tip of his saber dip into a slight twirl, gesturing for the start of their duel. Maul exchanged a look with his brother, who stepped aside after a wary shrug. He found a curl of satisfaction burn in his gut, that he might properly square off with one of his oldest enemies. The Force sat heavy and quiet in the back of his mind, a supporting hold poured down his spine that strengthened his resolve.

Someone would die, yes, but it would not be him.

Maul launched forward, silent as the shadows he had trained in as the man pulled on the Force to lend air to his steps. It was eerie, the blunted shh-shk of armor on cloth as he met Obi-Wan’s unrelenting person, a gravity that was broken only upon contact of their sabers.

He grit his teeth against the electric sizzle, feeling the Kyber crystal in his saber strain against the darkness Maul’s saber exuded, inky black and suffocating. It felt too much like a parable, and so Obi-Wan feinted a retreat, sliding his back foot into a demi-lune that encouraged Maul’s balance to shift egregiously forward.

The overbalancing put shock on the Sith’s face, and he was quick to take advantage of it, sliding his saber up the other’s in a parody of a lover’s touch, dipping and twisting just before the hilt to cut into the undefended forearm of his opponent. Armor provided little defense this close to a saber’s bite, and melted stickily, throwing Obi-Wan’s own balance off in repayment for his canny deception.

Both stumbled back, the single blow enough to make their hearts thrum with adrenaline. Obi-Wan thought wryly of another parable, that gods may be destroyed with but one touch of blood, as Maul’s face belied the shock of his defenses being broached so acutely. From the corner of his eye, Savage had a tight-knuckled grip on his own saber, anxiety pooling mistily to his senses.

It was a good opportunity to gesture to the open door of negotiation, for the sake of propriety and the dizzying change of diplomatic calculations Mon’s revelation had forced him into. Satine could be leveraged out of gratitude, he knew, but Maul? Could he topple the structure of the Sith and weaken Palpatine’s power structure?

That was a chance he needed to take.

“Why are you on Mandalore?” Obi-Wan demanded, holding the still and snakelike poise his adapted Soresu had left him in. He would not accept these superficial answers, not now.

Perhaps intuiting the finer subtleties of his question, Maul’s eyes flickered toward his arm, then to the Duchess. A warning was in that strike, something Obi-Wan could tell he knew, but how the man reacted would determine the next steps in this dance. Satine could no longer be used as a gambit, and where that left Maul – and by extension, Palpatine – was currently unknown.

A tilt of his chin upward, still sticking to his pride, Maul answered, “To conquer Mandalore.”

This did not satisfy Obi-Wan. “Why?”

A pause, leaden with the unsaid. Now, too, was Satine focusing her razor-sharp attention on the man who usurped her enemy and was trying for her throne. The Force was whisper-soft, a breeze that could be felt only by Obi-Wan and the conquerors. A glance ticked in his direction, slicing through the Force’s weight; perhaps not just them.

Maul did not so much respond in word as he did in body – rocking back, a motion made swaying in the eddies of their risen emotions – his gaze slid from dark saber to Savage, an elision slow enough that Obi-Wan knew was a coded response. Balancing the point of his saber loosely at the Jedi, Maul responded, “Did you like it, when I killed Qui-Gon?”

Not _teacher_, or _master_, but _Qui-Gon_. Obi-Wan restrained the soul-deep urge to twitch, anger briefly eclipsing the precarious balance between them. The Force shuddered, sighed, as he exhaled, forcing his mind to still upon the nuances. Maul, for all his billowing emotion, was an efficient fighter. He levelled no stroke of his saber without precision.

Qui-Gon, then, and Savage. His heart ached at the resonant memory, his master killed in a desolate corner of the Naboo palace. The Force nudged, leaning against a bruise that never quite healed, and Obi-Wan was reminded of Savage’s increasing presence at Maul’s side, how Maul drew Obi-Wan to him whenever the threat he posed was too great.

“I conquered the Jedi that day.” Maul continued, quiet, his voice a steady rock bisecting the stream that was their mutual antagonism. _Listen, listen,_ urged the Force. This Sith did not speak in words, but in riddles, laying claim and bet on their shared history. Something – some _one_, he guessed, mind flashing to the mild façade of Palpatine – forbade his speech.

_Traitor, traitor_, echoed his memories. Obi-Wan tightened his grip upon his saber.

Qui-Gon. Savage. A parallel that Maul drew in a subtle stroke, aiming at the heart- _hearts_ of the matter. He dipped his head in acknowledgement, knowing that their battle was as much wits as it was swords.

_Traitor_, Obi-Wan listened. He offered his reposte, “No. I did not.”

Satine looked on in bafflement, lost to their meaning. Perhaps that particular story had closed, Obi-Wan thought ruefully, thinking of the electric undercurrent of meaning Maul insinuated, how it paralleled Mon’s pleading gaze from the heart of the Republic.

The Force dipped into its own sigh, blossoming with the shared understanding these two rival sides of itself had arrived at. A smile flickered onto Obi-Wan’s face, and Maul’s saber – crackling and forbidding – tipped downwards in relaxation.

Not a draw, but also not a concession of defeat. A new beginning, a new hope flowering before him.

Obi-Wan resolved to usher it forward.

* * *

The Duchess was installed on her throne. Mandalore’s heart beat on, burning bright with its ever-present spirit of _mandokar_. Diverting on separate ways, Jedi and Sith took their own routes to Coruscant, obliging themselves to finish various loose ends.

It would not do to give Palpatine _too_ much advance warning.

The whispers traded _sub rosa_ between them, once safely ensconced away from the Mandalorian system, were illuminating. He had watched as Maul wove the Force into design after design, a chip of chalk wearing down as Obi-Wan saw the man’s Dathomirian heritage bloom forth with swirling designs that proved stark contrast to the Sith’s tattoos.

With each eclipsing sigil, he felt the Force draw tighter around them, a constraining bubble surrounding them that felt cosy despite the mixing of their alignments. It rather blurred, Obi-Wan mused, content to watch the other glide around the thrice-secured room tucked into the bowels of this trade planet they agreed upon. The effect was meditative, and he was content to let Maul soak up the energy his silence eked out.

_Tranquil_. His fingers skittered across the hilt of his saber, feeling the rocking reverberations of its crystal, a cradling feeling. _So this is what balance felt like_.

Obi-Wan nodded to Maul, feeling more settled than he had in a long, long while. He drained the dregs of the chilled instant tea he purchased on a whim, for all that it had warmed during their conversation. It provided an interesting backdrop to their discussion, each of them trading off the carton during lulls in their words.

Mon was never far from his mind’s eye, and he caught the curious looks leveled at him from under Maul’s brow whenever his pauses slid into ambling silence. He remembered hesitating, dragging fingers through the fringe that never quite stayed in its habitual, combed styling, his answer to the unvoiced question stumbling into the hesitantly-friendly air between them.

Despite the initial flush of doubt, the story unspooled. Obi-Wan had to credit Maul his poise, listening attentively and unblinkingly. When he came to the suspicions he and the senator shared of Palpatine regarding the clones, Maul uttered a sincere “_Fuck_.”

And so this flow of information across the mortal-made divide of Force disciples became a bridge of strategy, an edge of purpose overlying what they now knew. Maul had hesitated to outright confirm Mon’s suspicions that Palpatine was indeed the Sith they were looking for, eyes ticking toward their improvised protections in disquiet. It confirmed Palpatine’s strength, at least, and Obi-Wan had let that particular matter lie.

Maul was surprisingly insightful regarding the relationship between Anakin and Palpatine, a frown marring his expression at the instinctive tightening of Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force when he flatly announced that Anakin was being corrupted by the Chancellor. He understood the threat that Palpatine posed, alluding again to his brother Savage’s presence as his own student.

“Doesn’t that break some rule you Sith have?” Obi-Wan asked wryly, grasping for the bandage of distraction.

He received a scoff for his efforts, “That menace is no Sith.”

And so that matter was succinctly settled. They had the bones of a plan between them, and Maul had sworn to cast his net out to fellow rebels that would listen to him, strengthening their web of alliance that was born of mutual spite and disgust of Palpatine.

Obi-Wan knew their window of opportunity had drastically shrunk, and fled to Kashyyyk, an encoded message bouncing toward Mace, Mon, and select others.

One last battle was looming, and with it the fate of the war.

* * *

It was counter intuitive to arrive at Kashyyyk, which was precisely what he and Maul had gambled on. Yoda had taken post there more often, the elderly Master forced away from the center of the Republic the more Obi-Wan’s duties stretched him on the rack that was being head general of the GAR.

Clearing the surrounding space was quick, if confused. Obi-Wan had made some glib remark about status reports to the traffic controller on duty, trading idle jokes and gossip as he was waved through a series of checkpoints directly to Yoda’s base camp.

Nobody made any serious comments as to his choice of transportation – his reputation preceded him, here, and arriving on aged and heavily-reconstructed ships was hardly anything of note any more. That he had switched ships several times in order to make it here in the plan’s allotted amount of time was a secret between him and the multiple others he had drawn a veil of the Force over. _The only way to keep a secret…_ Obi-Wan mused to himself, striking an efficient landing.

No doubt that Commander Cody would hear the gossip of changed itinerary through the fastest vines of gossip, and Obi-Wan’s heart clenched at the man’s expected reaction. His undercover stint – and accompanying false death – was not long enough ago to gloss over, and while the acerbic comments would be kept to a professional level born of inevitably living in each other’s pockets, the trust he had worked to earn was fractured.

_I will repair that trust_, he swore to himself. The bonds of camaraderie and friendship were casualties of this war, and Obi-Wan would not let that sit on his conscious any longer than it had to. He had his fill of deception and the sacrifice of truth, and tugged on the tendril that was his connection to Cody, hoping the man would register it as an intentional thought, _Have patience, please. And brace yourself._

He could afford no more than that, and upon exiting his ship, met Yoda’s curious, grave expression with a bland one of his own.

“Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan greeted him, dipping into a practiced bow. A brow quirked at the unusual display of formality, something that had been abbreviated to curt dips of the head as respect was overtaken by the practicality of speed, “I’m afraid that requisitions wait for no one.”

Ears tipping up, Yoda stamped his cane on the ground. “Tea, we shall have,” The grandmaster declared, turning back to his quarters without waiting for a reply, “Requisitions, boring they will be. Tea, yes, will be entertaining.”

Coasting on the waves of mirth Yoda’s comment incited from the nearby clones, Obi-Wan chuckled, watching as they were divested of their perpetual guard in a deft stroke. He followed the diminutive master, ducking through the traditional curtains that served as doors for the Wookies.

Tea was indeed made, and Obi-Wan busied himself with measuring out the precious stock of leaves as he pointedly did not witness Yoda flicking on a jammer that sat, usually obscured, in the corner of the office.

It was quiet as they bustled around each other, minds brushing against each other in familiar trickles of guarded thought. Despite the stresses of this week had incurred, the ancient grandmaster’s presence ticked his shoulders down into a more companionable stance. The aroma of tea – pungent with the tang of fermentation and remnants of sunshine echoing in the Force – smoothed away the rest, until Obi-Wan felt more like he resembled a Jedi.

Yoda caught the mood, humming approvingly as he settled himself on the chair. The elder accepted the tea poured for him, gesturing for Obi-Wan to sit. “Requisitions, you have.”

He nodded. The tea was warm, the stone warming his hands as he cupped it despite the diminutive size. Breathing in a wisp of tea, Obi-Wan sighed, “And so dawned the third truth.”

To hear a saying from Jedi of yore paraphrased to him, Yoda’s breath had caught, and he frowned, the creases on his face shifting into a deep worry that underscored the contemplative sip he savoured. While Obi-Wan held himself partial to the lore and literature that encompassed the history of the Jedi, it was not often that he spoke it outside the Temple – the war had eroded any inclination to teach their culture to others, something that he knew other Jedi struggled with as their work loads became overburdened in death-dealing.

Obi-Wan glanced toward the jammer, a faint grimace pulling at his lips. One hand drifted up to pull at his beard, hand smoothing the hair in a repetitive action that spoke of habitual anxiety. The Force buttressed him, Yoda’s particular presence a singular point of focus. Gusting out a sigh, he reiterated the events of Mandalore.

His memories were starker, here, in the midst of Fett’s ill-begotten children. To hear of Maul’s collaboration, and the man’s reasoning for the long-planned treason, Yoda’s face softened in empathy as he nodded his understanding. The grip of fear – that their plan would be ill-received, that he would need to work against the implicit wishes of the Order and risk a schism while collaborating with a Sith and conspiring with a senator – loosened its grip in graduated steps.

“Alerted others, have you?” Was Yoda’s only comment, a gimlet stare fixed upon him. Rather than tensing up, he found it comforting, knowing this tint of focus was due to deferment – _trust_ – rather than a suggestion of immaturity was bolstering. Obi-Wan shrugged, knowing his messages had been only the barest bones of 'not dead'. “Hmm. Tell Master Windu, we shall.”

It was an inherently sensible idea, not least because of the other man’s standing as head of the Order. His temperament was fitting toward the plan, though he would be limited to administrative work, given the political fallout this would inevitably have – with victory or with failure, the Jedi would be needed in the resulting world.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan asked. Between he and Maul, his padawan had been a grey area neither were sure how to approach – both agreed that he was a vulnerability, but giving the young man a mission would not necessarily maneuver him into a relatively safe corner of Palpatine’s web. Despite the half-way antagonistic relationship Anakin shared with Yoda, one borne of frustration and miscommunication on both ends, he hoped that a solution might be found over the cups of steaming, rationed tea.

Yoda nodded slowly, reaching for the teapot. The master sighed as the pot was levitated, pouring a steady stream into both of their cups. A prophecy clung to as a vain tendril of hope was whisper-thin here, where another nexus point of a revolution was being knitted into reliable strength; Anakin could well be a liability that needed to be negotiated off the political stage.

“The flowers in Naboo,” Yoda said quietly, “Blooming soon, they will be.”

He nodded, feeling the Force spark with the idea, transmutating into something brighter. Naboo was well-connected on the political stage, thanks to Senator Amidala, and a refuge that Anakin found safety in. Perhaps the young man would be deemed an impromptu champion of Naboo and her senator, and timely – the senator’s pregnancy was an open secret, despite her camouflaging with voluminous folds and dark fabrics.

_Two birds with one stone_. Obi-Wan approved of the plan, mind already flitting as to how this could be accomplished. Taking both of them out of open firing range could only be beneficial, and practice in this mindset made him believe that it might prove a boon to their increasingly-fractured relationship. Removing the wedge that was Palpatine’s manipulations would help heal Anakin, and defang the snake heading their Republic some more.

Obi-Wan felt a smile slide onto his face. “You are a font of wisdom, as ever, Master Yoda.”

Yoda waved a gnarled hand in a casual swoop; the Force rippled, briefly, as if depressurizing when the jammer was switched off. The master chortled, “Reach my age, and dream of paperwork, you do.”

“I endeavour to fill out forms as well as you,” Obi-Wan replied, a tendril of hopeful joy bubbling forth as he chuckled, parting the curtains obscuring the entrance of Yoda’s cave-like office.

_Perhaps we can do this._

* * *

Rejoining the fleet was surreal. He had some experience with slipping back into the routine hustle of the GAR, donning the guise of High General after a confidential mission – but this time, his leave was unsanctioned, and his experience with the Sith was a different angle of personal. Though his actions this time around veered more into subterfuge and betrayal, and intentionally so, he did not feel so world-weary.

His mood was immediately noted, Commander Cody tilting his bucket in an arched-brow look at the comparative lightness of his step, and some of his soldiers had playfully questioned if there were any souvenirs for them from his vacation. It was lighthearted, and he sensed that they did not begrudge his week-long absence, particularly when the news of his tea-time with Yoda had arrived light-years sooner than himself.

The easy smile he had donned, eyes twinkling in a barely-hidden mischief that Anakin commented wryly had not been seen since before many of the _vod’e_ could fit a _buy’ce_ on their heads, helped foment the genial tittering shuffling among the ranks.

Receiving an impish nudge to his shoulder when they were loading up on a LAAT/i for their next engagement from his padawan, the other grinning beside Captain Rex, made them laugh. He could honestly have not predicted Anakin’s casual quip, “Old man, I would almost say you’re in love.”

Mon’s visage flickered to the front of his mind. Despite the frantic pace – something that the war had inured him to – Obi-Wan found time to call the senator. Between Maul and Yoda, he was certain the woman had been appraised of current events, though she had still lit up in relief when she saw him on the other side of the hologram. It was a stark contrast to the despairing tears from their last conversation, and it had made his heart clench in a familiar feeling of protectiveness.

He knew what it boded, having become acquainted with the disconcerting blend of affection and worry over the course of his lifetime. In some ways, Obi-Wan thought that it was a more stable marker of his life; passing from one love of his life to another, each relationship budding but cut off before it could bloom fully. The warm tones of Mon as they held a conversation that was only slightly coded was comforting, reminding him of the determined grip of her hands on his when she had muttered world-shaking news scarcely two weeks earlier.

It was with those memories in mind that Obi-Wan let his smile draw into rakishness, listening to the amused giggles of Ahsoka and the younger _vod’e_ around them, “Well, I _have_ always enjoyed a good vacation.”

Anakin shook his head, a grin affixed on his face. It stayed even as the lights flashed to indicate an imminent landing, the back of their transport opening up to allow all three Jedi to plunge into the battlefield before it could deploy the rest of the troops. They all waved a jaunty salute in the pilot’s direction, adhering to their favourite poses as they jumped out.

Obi-Wan had to grin at the bright dots of his padawans by his side, Kyber crystal singing as his saber was lit.

* * *

They tracked their way back to the Inner Core. Obi-Wan could feel the ripple of their plan, carefully orchestrated to shift the political centrepoint into their collective favour. It paralleled the fluctuations of the Force; there was still that stark band of malignancy, but its edges had blurred – something he assumed was due to the shifting allegiances of the various Sith and other Dark Siders allying themselves to this new cause.

It was not truly a Jedi’s cause, nor to the Jedi’s benefit. He knew this, taking care with the workload that running an army dictated, to achieve as impeccable of a record as could be obtained. Cody periodically gave him odd looks when handed back datapads that the lower-ranked officers needed to sign on, recognizing the shift into even greater conservatism, but said nothing.

Perhaps that faint tendril of thought pushed to his commander light-years away _had_ made an impression, lingering in the back of the man’s mind and encouraging him to turn a blind eye in certain matters. If so, Obi-Wan was inordinately glad – having the man in the upcoming crossfire imparted a bitter taste on his tongue. There would be enough manpower needed to protect these sons of Mandalore – Palpatine was a matter for the Senate and Force-aligned.

With that thought in mind, he grumbled around his tepid tea, tapping on his tablet to see what missives Shaak Ti might have delivered to him.

Kamino was a thorny problem, not in the least due to the tangle of financial involvement stringing its way back into Palpatine’s hands. While Maul had promised him that he would look into the allegiances of Dooku – a grimace on his face as he tacitly acknowledged his participation in Obi-Wan’s grandmaster leaving the Jedi by skewering the man that had linked the lineage together – it was not a sure thing, and they had proposed several potential solutions in case Dooku was unable to be swayed from Palpatine's side.

His experience as Rako Hardeen had cast doubt onto the idea that his grandmaster was truly so militant, the thread of grief marring the man’s mannerisms as he goaded a disguised Obi-Wan on was enough to convince both he and Maul that there was perhaps a glimmer of hope in that direction. It could well be a poisoned well, but they had to try; divesting Palpatine of his powerful right arm and destabilizing the CIS was imperative to handing the Senate leverage to withdraw from active war proceedings.

While he had prudently _not_ asked, under the guise of plausible deniability, Obi-Wan was certain that at least a few people had been set on the trail back to the Muun headquarters on the outskirts of the galaxy. What material conveniently made its way to the Senate’s lap was not for him to ponder, only to have faith that his rival would succeed in their shared goal.

Obi-Wan was nothing if not a man prone to throwing himself into faith. He opened up his mail client, seeing a mildly-worded message from Shaak herself.

As a resident head trainer to the clones and liaison from the Temple, she was uniquely positioned to interrogate and sway as she pleased, and once the High Council’s own brand of grapevine was pressed into action, incredibly pleased to effect change as she so dearly wished. The Togruta was a terrifying woman when she had set herself on a path, but he knew her determination would prove fruitful – whether anyone wanted it or not.

The pleasantries that padded her message were subtly coded, drawing upon both a long working relationship and a particular brand of entendre that Jedi Masters often relied upon when wary of outside attention. For all intents and purposes, they were discussing favourite fables from ancient Jedi literature. Boring, dry, and riveting only to the most monastic among them. For the images that they sought to upkeep in this bedeviled game of politics mired in unrepentant bloodshed, an austere appearance was beneficial.

Picking up the thread that was introduced, he discussed the merits of Stone Soup, and how many cultures had their own ingredients that typified traditional cuisines. No matter how adept their system was encrypted, they needed to assume that it was fundamentally compromised – if there was nothing critical to reveal, nothing would be found. And so they gossiped, ostensibly idly, on the cultural intricacies of this shared myth, glibly sliding into Jedi variants that were keywords on status updates.

After a couple hours of conversation – given the time differences and how long it took messages to be transferred across the galactic network, it was lucky that Shaak was available at this hour – Obi-Wan clicked off his personal tablet with a satisfied sigh, picking up his tea.

Shaak was well on her way to rotating the armies out to Kamino, unfettering them from the chips that they had confirmed in triplicate existed. Mon would be pleased with the news.

He felt a smile pulling at his lips. While Obi-Wan had not spent much time with the senator before – their duties often putting them in different sectors of Senate building and galaxy alike – it had always been pleasant to run across her. A serious demeanour belied her quick wit, and the few times they had worked together with others made him appreciate her sensible approach to the war.

Her outspoken demeanour – tempered and measured, though not quite sedate – about Palpatine’s ascending power had, admittedly, steered him away from her at first. He was a High General, a Master of the Order, and a member of the High Council; to be seen with her would have been seditious erring on blasphemous. In this delicate tangle of realpolitik, it would have been disadvantageous to speak as casually with her as he did Senators Amidala or Organa, weighted as his relationships were with history.

But now he had a shared history with her. He smirked into his tea, emptying the cup. _A revolution would do that_, Obi-Wan thought wryly. It took some doing, but Padmé had been kind – and creative – enough to find an excuse to arrange their formal introduction. The guise of clandestinely overlapping meetings took some doing, but for the eavesdroppers he had spotted outside Bail’s office it looked authentic enough to fool them; he supposed their genuine surprise over Padmé's secrecy had covered themselves well.

Obi-Wan had the feeling that she had rather enjoyed the surreptitious planning to get the two of them in the same room, though he still wasn’t quite sure why Padmé had appeared so ebullient over the opportunity considering the gravity of their situation. Bail had appeared genial enough, welcoming his peer with an affability that made him stare studiously at the tablet with legislative amendments he had been asked to look over, despite not taking in a single word of the complex phrasing. Mon had approached him with a wry smile and smooth quip of, “So this is the man of the hour.”

The memory of his restrained flush was echoed back to him to the present, and Obi-Wan sighed. He still wasn’t sure why his heart had fallen when Mon had entered the room with pleased smiles to the sight of her fellow senators – their work and long acquaintance would certainly have inured them to the formal holdings that their ranks beheld to them, and the whiff of… jealousy? No, something lighter, more distant, a _craving _ that made his nose itch and fingers curl had no place with his contextually outside position. More vocally than he had then, the familiar refrains of the code filtered into his mind, alighting from his lips and pulling the threads of his anxiety with it.

Mon was a good friend to them all, and her close acquaintance in his life was to be enjoyed.

With a decisive nod to himself, he completed some reports, signing off with a conclusive clack of his stylus. The stack of datapads – smaller than usual, what with his recent push to complete backlogged work during the discreet but appreciated drop in CIS activities – was piled neatly on the corner of his desk. He fetched his personal tablet, checking the time. They were nearly at Coruscant, and soon he would need to exit his quarters and complete his rounds before they arrived at the Temple.

Anakin had taken his suggestions to heart, and it took little encouragement for his padawan to sway Palpatine into a vacation disguised as a business trip in the Naboo sector. Were it not for the buffeting presence of Padmé’s protective demeanour, Obi-Wan would have worried more about Palpatine’s aims to worm himself further into Anakin’s good graces. As things stood, however, he knew the good senator had cottoned on to the potential peril Anakin found himself mired in.

So seeing the message from the young man that had arrived while he was occupied with work made Obi-Wan smile, and he tapped it open, fondly amused at the sprawling sentences and minimal punctuation. The rambling style was exuberant in a relaxed manner that he rarely saw outside of the flush of mechanical work or his ostensibly secret wife.

It was good to see; Obi-Wan whittled away some more time in carefully responding to every one of Anakin’s meandering topics. He enquired over Padmé and the various others they were acquainted with on Naboo, signing off with warm wishes to enjoy the planet’s sunny spring while he was on assignment there.

There was a knock rapped onto his door, and Obi-Wan sighed, finger paused as it was poised over the thread of conversation he was maintaining with Mon. He gave a wistful look at the tablet before setting it down, “Come in.”

“_Alor_.” Longshot greeted him, helmet tucked under one arm, “We’re set to enter the Coruscant sector in in a couple of hours.”

Obi-Wan nodded, “Thank you, Lieutenant. Was Captain Adenn needing anything?”

A wry smile accompanied Longshot’s word, “Perhaps some reassurance that our general is having a pleasant ride?”

Stifling a laugh, Obi-Wan rose from his seat. The captain, while ruthless in the field and an adept strategist, was anxious to make a good impression while transporting him to Coruscant. He wasn’t entirely certain what recent rumors were being floated to them, but putting their mind at ease would be a good way to stretch his legs.

Longshot stood to the side of the door, an amused tilt to his scarred brow as Obi-Wan remembered to fetch his tablet, tucking it into the wide obi at his waist. It pinged with a new message as he exited his quarters with Longshot dutifully following in an honour guard formation. He couldn’t help the feeling that the dear senator had sent something, and it was with a smile that he strode toward the bridge.

* * *

Despite the relatively minuscule size of the ship carrying him to the capital, there were no less than four more pings to his inbox. It caught the attention of passersby to varying degrees of hilarity and bemusement – the fact that it wasn’t the same tone as his work tablet was noticed only to those familiar with him, inciting scattered titters.

Obi-Wan plucked the tablet, setting it to silent with a few swipes and a chagrined huff. He caught a glance at the notification bar, proving him correct that Mon had indeed messaged him. Strangely, though, he had two from her, one from Clone Intelligence, and another from Dooku.

The sight was strange enough to make him pause in the middle of the causeway bordering the abbreviated engineering section. He ignored the subtly-shifted change in posture from Longshot and the others; the encrypted network meant that any messages attempted from CIS-recognized individuals were pinged to the security system managing everything. To have one from their intelligence department _before_ Dooku was less curious and more alarming.

He clicked open the notification from Intelligence first, scanning its contents for anything that might jump out at him. It appeared to be a standardized, automated report, something that he was slated to receive periodically to be updated on movements both within and outside of the Republic.

_General Grievous has been spotted advancing toward Kashyyyk with several contingents of BX-series commando droids and other fourth-class droids. Movement observed at approximately ten parsecs per hour._

It felt odd, the Force flexing in a jagged murmur of impatience around him – but at a distance, as if the rush of ocean waves blurred the sensation into anxious static. Obi-Wan scrolled through the message again, resisting the urge to run fingers through his beard, to see if any particular nuance of this news needed his attention.

Yoda was still in that area, relatively unmoved from their meeting scarce weeks ago. The grandmaster was assuredly capable of handling this particular threat – but his meeting with Maul came to the forefront of his mind. Both of them had known that the droid army was an issue, but simply rendering them useless was both taxing and ostentatious; far better was it to divert the mass of droids, and give them a new goal.

Though Maul had sworn to sway Grievous to another angle, Obi-Wan was unsure how that would be accomplished. He frowned, switching to Dooku’s message.

It was naught but a single line: _The sacrificial ghost._

He frowned, eyes tracing over the strokes of each character. Like the rest of Dooku’s mannerisms, it was simple and layered in meaning. His erstwhile grandmaster had chosen to speak through philosophy, one that was woven into the lore that connected both Jedi and the Republic.

The message was, interestingly, from a school of thought popular during Master Yoda’s early years. Such a time span was obscure, often relegated to a historian’s eye – less known, though, was its circulation among the older generations of Jedi Masters, particularly those who had partaken of diplomatic missions. Dooku had been among those members, and his epithet of “Gentle Hand” within the CIS was telling of his educational heritage.

Obi-Wan hummed in curiosity, flicking between the two opened messages. The timestamps flickered minutely, showing a passage of mere hours, something too close to be a coincidence. He eyed the intricate characters, the Force nudging him to consider how it was paraphrased from a traditional analogy.

_Ghosts_. It rang in his mind, a faint echo of the_Traitor _ that had been trailing his subconscious mind. While the two words were dissimilar, Obi-Wan could see how the two entwined to the same goal. A subversion of what was right, something contrary to justice. He read Dooku’s message again.

_The sacrificial ghost_. He double-tapped to highlight the phrase, intent to send it off to Intelligence, and paused at the extra space the program automatically selected. 

_Oh. Oh, of course_.

It was not a “ghost” at all. The report on Grievous made more sense – Palpatine was their ghost, their illusory “dirty trick” that Dooku had hidden in his message. Grievous had been sent to deliver the first blow.

Obi-Wan shook his head, marvelling at his grandmaster’s deception. The man had deceived like a true Jedi.

_Traitor_.

It did not prick his conscious so acutely, now. He remembered Mon’s determination, the thin-lipped poise as she wore a tenuous mask to the Chancellor’s supporters. To see the fruits of her efforts was heartening, and he remembered that she had sent two successive messages before this gnarled news.

A polite cough interrupted his train of thought, half-way through following his intention to ramble about his newest discoveries with Mon. Obi-Wan blinked, a reactive flush passing over his features when he caught Longshot’s bemused look of concern, “Everything alright, _alor_?”

“Oh.” He glanced at his datapad, with its blank draft and blinking cursor. Straightening, he clicked the screen off and tucked it away, “Quite. Shall we continue?”

* * *

Adenn had indeed been anxious to impress him, and Obi-Wan felt admittedly refreshed at the nervously crisp salute from the captain when he disembarked. The crew left with warm feelings, however, and he knew that Longshot would take the opportunity to regale them with one outrageous story after another.

He sighed fondly, making his way through the corridors of the Temple. It was always reorienting, to be back home, and he took the scenic route through the Room of a Thousand Fountains in order to properly relish the break in hopping from one front line to another.

The damp air with its artificial eddies clung to his clothes, carrying with it the perfumes of their many delicate flowers. Obi-Wan neglected stopping by his quarters, feeling vaguely guilty about it but not pausing as he ventured toward the hovertrain station dedicated for Jedi travelling to the Senate.

* * *

Mon’s messages sat heavily at his waist, mind brimming as it was with his revelations. It had become a habit to divulge and exchange thoughts with her, cups of steaming tea and a plate of Chandrillian finger foods between them. The sustained lack of decompression stretched his skin, an itch along his spine that could not be easily rid of.

It was with the greatest of ironies that Obi-Wan now looked forward to visiting the Senate, and its accompanying senatorial apartment complex. He supposed that the presence of the good senator was boon enough to outweigh his reservations of the complex and its encroaching putridity. Knowing what he did now, it was easier to see the Sith’s tendrils digging into the crevices of the Republic’s bureaucratic heart.

He sighed, nodding to a pair of Jedi wearing the sash of messengers exiting the train as he took his seat. The train was rarely used, now, too used were they to being deposited directly at the Senate to confer upon strategy and orders from Palpatine on the direction of this war. Obi-Wan scrubbed a hand through his beard, watching the faint fingers of Coruscant’s setting sun between the skyscrapers. _Soon. It will be over soon_.

The Force kept quiet companionship with him, the fractured gaps of his worry floating closed with the sunset’s golden view and the anticipation of Mon’s vicinity.

* * *

It was a winding path, dotted with brief conversations, to their meeting place. Ostensibly, Obi-Wan was to arrive at Senator Amidala’s office to coordinate news with her and Anakin. Their long history kept his presence circumspect – that it was a nexus of activity even in the senator’s absence was not unusual, and perhaps the late hour made for a sublime excuse for refreshment among the guests.

Amidala’s staff were well-trained, coordinating different corners of the senator’s public seating area to complementary individuals. Obi-Wan plucked a cordial from a waiting tray, smiling genially at the brisk nod from one of the aides.

“And here I was, thinking Jedi abstained from the more potent pleasures.”

The lilting tease made him turn, demure smile curving Mon’s lips when she raised her own glass in welcome. Obi-Wan felt the slope of his shoulders relax, clinking his glass against hers. “I find that they are only so pleasant as the company,” He assured her, wry smile slipping into a grin at her chuckle, “Were you here already? I didn't see you arrive.”

She shrugged, the Hanna pendant on her dress jangling with the movement; Obi-Wan curled his fingers tighter on his glass, determined not to let his eyes flicker downward. “Only shortly before you,” Mon replied, “There were some other matters that needed my absolutely riveting signature.”

Her droll tone and minutely arched brow turned the dry statement into something comical. Obi-Wan felt a laugh bubble up, teetering into existence at the edge of mischief limning the senator’s seaglass eyes.

“I know the feeling,” He said, grinning. The Force echoed his merry mood, buoyant at the sight of Mon’s pressed-thin lips – the particular tilt of which he had learned was repressed laughter, what felt like several months of holo-calls ago. Obi-Wan gestured to an open spot on one of the settees, “Shall we sit?”

Mon responded with a graceful nod, linking her hand amiably into the crook of his proffered elbow. Though the walk was short, limited as they were by the constraints of the quarters, the bustling mood of their like-minded peers kept them close. He tried not to be overtly conscious of the warmth of her hand and the way her fingers held a lightly-tuned strength, tugging on his perpetual sense of the Force more for support than intervention so that his steps did not stumble.

They glided to the seat as if practiced, and Obi-Wan took the opportunity that was Mon rearranging the skirts of her gown to breathe a silent _thank you_ that it went smoothly. He grinned easily when the senator glanced back up at him, momentarily distracted by the warmth of her reciprocal smile. It made him wonder how he had managed the past twenty years of diplomatic dinners and mingling with various governmental persons; surely he could manage the next hour of business-minded conversation?

But then Mon leaned into his space, a conspiratorial tone to her lips, and Obi-Wan instead clung to the Force and hoped his ears didn’t turn red.

“I was beginning to wonder if I had scared you off,” She quipped, taking a sip of her wine, “You hadn’t responded to my most recent messages – I was pleasantly surprised to see you here tonight.”

“How could I miss such such enrapturing conversation?” Obi-Wan retorted, and immediately bemoaned his face warming at the automatic repartee. He tasted his own wine, hoping Mon wouldn’t notice – something he doubted, given the quick mind she never feared to display. It was one thing to talk so casually over holo-call, but quite another to do so in person.

She smirked, and though her eyes spelled kind amusement, Obi-Wan felt mortified at his lapse. It diffused some of his internal beration, however, when she stayed settled near his side – the Force, despite his clutching, barely rippled across his senses in response to his silent plea for the floor to swallow him whole, which was both rude and disappointing, if anyone asked him. He muffled a sigh into his wine glass.

A few of the attending guests – most of them some shade of bureaucrat, but not all – sent them bland, polite smiles whenever they circulated past, and both of them contented themselves with a spot of people-watching. The wine sat mellow on his tongue, a fresh red that bloomed in its aftertaste. It rather reminded him of Mon’s impact on his life, and a glance ticked into her direction at some deadpan joke delivered by an ostentatiously-dressed Twi’lek that roused titters of laughter.

Her lips, curled into a quiet laugh, were beginning to rouge from the drink that was only noticeable from the pale cast of her skin. It made the red of her hair stand out, the sideswept fringe blending into the relaxed cut of her bob. Mon caught his gaze, a question risen in the upwards tick of her brow.

“I was...” The sentence was spontaneous, further along than the whispering curl of his thoughts. Obi-Wan stared contemplatively at the smouldering gold emanating from the lamps scattered across the wall, swirling the wine in his glass absently; Mon leant forward into his space, as if that would help coax his musings into completion. It made the quiet scent of her perfume brighten his thoughts – something bright and tart and forestal. He breathed in deeply, relishing the sensation that was her presence, “I was wondering.”

“So was I,” She rejoined with placid amusement.

Obi-Wan tipped a smile at her. Abruptly, he had the wish to lean his head atop hers, and twirled his fingers around the stem of his glass to bury the feeling a little deeper. The task was difficult, for Mon’s presence in the Force was usually a distant nebula to his senses – something to grasp for perpetually but always hidden behind cleverly-disguised smokescreens. He supposed that a politician would benefit from wrapping their Force presence to maintain a veneer of professionalism, especially so with the amount of telepathic species scattered across the galaxy. That Palpatine was not only attuned to the effects sentient minds played on the natural streams of the Force was an additional downside, and he was glad that Mon had such a well-disciplined mind.

“What shall we do?” he asked her. Obi-Wan wasn’t quite sure to what end he was enquiring, and felt content to leave that nuance in her hands.

Mon seemed to share his thoughtful countenance, gazing out into the middle distance with him. The other guests had settled into their groups, clumps of mixed company scattered across Padmé's lounge. Conversation drifted over to them from the myriad corners of the room, almost eclipsing the sound of Mon’s subtle sigh. 

“Move forward, I suppose,” she replied, and although the words were flippant, they were threaded with the _beskar_ iron of determination. It was the same strength that begun this entire endeavour, culminating into a rebellion right under the Chancellor’s all-encompassing sight. Admiration bubbled up, a familiar reaction to the senator not quite nestled into his side. Mon gestured with her free hand briefly to the assemblage of fellow rebels, “There has been discussion of calling the senate into session.”

The Force shifted at that, sparking a thrill of anticipatory adrenaline down Obi-Wan’s spine; the dots of her plan assembled in front of his mind’s eye, clueing him into the plan that Mon has quietly orchestrated. He nodded approvingly, a smile lighting on his face at the proud spark enlivening her features.

“That’s bold,” Obi-Wan said. An idea skittered into being, and it felt appropriate to voice it, “Shall I attend, as well?”

She bumped her shoulder against his, unexpectedly intimate despite the growing proximity they were sharing on the settee, “It’s a date.”

* * *

Obi-Wan had attempted to settle himself after the soirée hosted by a tactfully absent Padmé, to little avail. His senses zinged with the after-images of an enthused Mon joining the fray of other guests to finalize the final steps of their rebellion, confirmations and negotiations smoothly made within a half hour. Wine forgotten in his hand, he had followed the eddies her path carved into the small crowd, occasionally distracted from his lingering attention on the senator to politely be mingled with when spoken to. The Force had curled around him, heavy and warm against the frigidity of his shock.

_It’s a date_. It made turmoil curdle in his stomach, something that had not ceased even hours afterward. On the one hand, Mon was a senator – and a righteously seditious one, at that – where anything other than professional relations could demolish both of their precariously-balanced careers (despite the arguments he was _certain_ both Anakin and Padmé would make). She did not deserve to have such aspersions cast upon her, especially at the potential moment of triumph. A Jedi, with too many wars under his belt and blood and guilt seeping into the lines of his hands? It could well mean obliteration of their fledgling resurrection of democracy if such news fell into maligned hands.

But on the other hand… 

On the other hand, Obi-Wan had a lightness of heart and spirit that he was sure had rusted away a lifetime ago. The wrinkles etching themselves onto his face were no longer mere histories of stress and grief, but laughter and joy making its tidy place. When his hands ached with emptiness, it was because of yearning to brush fingers across her own and feel a reciprocal grasp twining into the spaces. If his steps were buoyant, it was less a driving push to utilize the Force and more the delight of her attention fluttering the air underneath him.

Those blood-stained, guilt-ridden hands of his were a lesson to hold on to the precious things of life, and to know – however delicately stated – that this leap of faith would land him safely was a sufficient impetus to weigh Mon’s tangible teasing heavily against his inhibitions. Without her wishes, Obi-Wan knew he would have remained in the shadow of the Temple, a faithful servant to the Force through his duties as a Jedi.

It made him think of Dooku: a grandmaster that even now held respect among the older generations of the Order, and someone that left upon the order of not only the ache of a broken family, but also a Jedi who was not afraid to follow the more esoteric twists of the Force. That line of thought retraced his steps through each of the people that served as stepping stones, a circle that began and ended with a singularly distinctive Mon Mothma.

Obi-Wan, quite abruptly, came to the conclusion that were it not for the senator’s abject departure of appropriate channels due to the windfall of crucial intelligence, they would have passed each other as comets passed in the night. Bright, and noticeable for those who were already paying attention, but unremarkable in conjunction to each other. The Force roiled with the revelation, a contrast to the shocked stillness of his mind.

His steps echoed loudly as he hurried through his piece of the plan, and louder in his mind. As Mon had commanded the Jedi to ready for the final battle of the war, so would Obi-Wan follow her dictations to arm themselves for peace. At his side, the Kyber of his saber hummed in tune with his determination, a reverberation that seeped into the expectant Force.

_Soon_, Obi-Wan repeated to himself, a mantra that buoyed his steps and made his hands clench reflexively upon empty air, _Soon_.

* * *

The Temple emptied and rearranged itself in efficient sections, a bustle of activity that was deliberately unremarkable. Under the pretenses of a war that had stricken the heart of the Republic more than once, it was an easy thing to organize the younglings’ evacuation, crystals and other priceless cornerstones of Jedi culture and bureaucracy smuggled into the folded cloth of their future. Anakin had jumped at the opportunity to aid in such an endeavour, a refugee crisis that was unadorned and unvoiced.

He hoped it was a temporary measure. He also did not look back on the Temple as he navigated through the lower levels of Coruscant, intent on reaching Mon’s prearranged rendezvous point.

Altogether, this phase took nearly a day to complete, from one moonrise to another. His datapad had pinged with increasing, sporadic frequency – reports coming in about movements that Obi-Wan knew held Maul’s efficient panache. Despite the comparatively leisurely time, this battle required a constant bleed of attention, drawing him away from the outside world. It was faith in their success that kept the instinctive anxiety at bay.

Some days he had managed on less than that, so he held onto that, too.

It was as if everyone were today attuned to the Force, as deserted as his route to under the Senate had been. The increasingly darker layers of Coruscant had their own ecosystems of economy, busy with scarcely a thought to the surface or even the galaxy at large. Ordinarily this would have been a struggle, security for the Chancellor dipping periodically below the monumental structure, but Obi-Wan took it as a sign of the Force and increased the speed of his steps.

Accessing the conveniently unlocked series of hatches and doors was simple, after that, despite the curious curl of the Force twisting into an itch that he was unable to scratch. The blending of light and dark spectrums needed adjusting, and Obi-Wan sucked in a deep, meditative breath before striding out into the public corridors. The quietude was anticipatory, and he let the spool of thread that was the Force guide him forward. He held fast to his sense-memories of Mon, diamond sparkle carefully concealed with a wit and charm that made her amiably elusive, an anchor to the weightlessness beneath his feet.

Reaching the entryway to Padmé's senatorial pod, filled only with a polite assemblage of guards both subtle and ostensible, Obi-Wan threw the hood of his cloak up. He had made it with time to spare, the various arranged arguments only just now beginning to wind up to the planned crescendo. He tilted his head against the silver-gilded post, one ear attending to the heartbeat rhythm of the Force. It would be time enough for his turn in this complex game of chess.

Soon, though, Chandrila was called forward amidst increasing rumbles from various systems. The pot-stirring had done its job well, pointed and scattered to avoid accusation of any potential leader. Palpatine had grown increasingly darker in the Force, a frown embedded onto his features. Mon would deliver the final strike, standing as she was upon the shoulders of her co-conspirators to gain enough leverage for a death blow.

He had faith in her abilities as a public speaker, especially one that could rouse the public with solid evidence accrued over the course of weeks in her hands. Careful to keep out of sight, Obi-Wan crept forward, masking himself from the wandering eyes behind Padmé’s loyal staff.

“My fellow senators,” Mon began, voice strong and clear, confident in a way that made his fingers dig into his sleeves to abstain from the urge to move to her side, “You have heard the arguments of our peers. Now, I bring forth my own.”

With a flair Obi-Wan easily admitted was elegant, the environmental lights dimmed, setting the stage for the hologram projectors that flickered to life. Never one to pull punches when needed, it seemed, as the resulting image was their very own Chancellor bedecked in Sith attire and surrounded by suspicious individuals as outlined by previous senators. He felt the curl and pop of pressure that was Palpatine’s temper and mordor of the captivated audience rising, making him grimace at the sensation of freefall.

The video played, Palpatine’s voice strong and distinct. Whomever had captured these scenes must have been close indeed, to obtain such court-admissible evidence. He felt himself reaching for the hilt of his saber, stunned outrage growing among those in attendance. The Kyber crystal was soothing, bolstering in the unsteady mood pressing in from all sides. Palpatine, in the flesh, was muttering quickly to the attendants in his own pod, fury written in bold ink across his face. The secretary attempted to call for order, voice growing hoarse as they were shouted down.

Mon stood serene and unmovable, eyes fixed upon the nails she was hammering into their Chancellor’s coffin. The sight caught Obi-Wan’s breath, and he almost missed her crowning jewels – the final nail, indisputable evidence of the clones being used to genocide the Jedi and overthrow the Galactic Republic to install himself as emperor. To hear the voices of Nala Se and other Kaminoans admit that their soldiers were neither newly-minted nor intended to protect them was a ringing blow echoed in the furious roar of the crowd.

When Mon’s eyes unerringly met his own from across the vast distance of the meeting chamber, Obi-Wan felt the Force pour steel down his spine, a single goal coaxing his chin to raise and hands to throw his hood back as he stepped into view of the Senate. Be it the Force or their assembled collection of rebels turning as one to face the Naboo pod, a hush swooped over them, throwing Obi-Wan into the spotlight. With the Force at his back and Mon in front of him, his voice cut through the swamp of tension.

“Supreme Chancellor Palpatine,” Obi-Wan announced, voice cutting with finality. The Sith in question had a black look of rage on his face, and Obi-Wan ignored the woozy feeling of such pinpointed homicidal feelings dimming his mortal senses, “As a Jedi, it is my prerogative to detain those who use the Force maliciously.”

It was nothing but the truth, and after the carnage that Mon’s evidence had wrought, the Jedi would likely have the higher moral authority on this issue. Obi-Wan retained his pose, letting the scarred armor over monastic wool robes speak for itself. This would be a battle on emotional grounds, for all that a duel would be the probable end. The Force revealed nothing of its outcome aside from notes of victory – something that in itself was no assurance to his survival, placed in the thick of it as he was, but he acknowledged the comfort that was Mon’s thready worry reaching toward him.

He allowed himself the brief luxury of calculation, adjusting his figures for the impetus that was this confrontation. Just as Palpatine was about to speak – something Obi-Wan was almost curious to see how vile it would be – the Force jerked at the reins of their attentions to one of the senatorial pods, startling their senatorial audience as they simultaneously looked over.

Directly opposite of Palpatine, in one of the few, surprisingly vacant pods, was Count Dooku himself. It seemed that he had dressed for the occasion, resplendent and intimidating in dark silks and a cape that framed menacingly broad shoulders. Neither of them could hide their own surprise, and Obi-Wan ticked a glance at Mon in question. All she offered was a smile, mysterious in its knowledge of their official enemy’s presence. His heart skipped a beat, and he dragged his gaze back to his grandmaster patiently waiting for the clamor to die down.

“Sidious,” the man greeted the Chancellor amiably, using the Force to amplify his dulcet tone. One hand was placed upon the bent handle of his saber – Dooku had come for a duel, Obi-Wan realized in abstract shock, and felt a bubble of gratitude that Maul had accomplished the seemingly impossible. To see the leader of the CIS, a Jedi turned Sith Lord, baldly addressing their traitorous leader in the heart of their legislative body with a subtle challenge to fight was- was something only the Force could will. Dooku waited for the newest wave of noise to settle, and continued speaking, “You have failed, on _all_ grounds. If you refuse arrest, I will be pleased to help hasten your death.”

It was a riveting statement, and he was thrown by the blunt support, only able to throw an automatic nod in response to Dooku’s tilted chin in his direction. A unified front was their intention, and Obi-Wan was thankful that it was also their play. He was sure of the news drones flying around to capture the historic moment, but the knowledge was pushed to the bottom of his priorities – dueling by his grandmaster’s side would be more than gratifying, and he felt a malapropos surge of giddiness at the opportunity.

A tendril of presence tugged at him, and Obi-Wan recognized the particular flavor of Mace’s Force signature. It carried the tones of inquiry; the man was unable to join him at the Senate, absorbed as he was waiting at the ready if Obi-Wan’s called for help. Mace must have sensed the revealing of the Sith signatures, and wanted to know if he needed to rally the Jedi waiting at the Temple. It was heartening, and an affectionate smile almost marred the serious façade he was currently using. Instead, he reached back, surprised elation funneling through with a clipped memory of Dooku arriving.

Mace was pleased, but only faintly startled. He wondered if he was the last to know in their little group of his grandmaster’s plan to join them. There was still Mon, across from him, with her demure and pleased smirk. The Force fluttered around those thoughts, and Obi-Wan forced himself to shelve them for later. _There __ must_ _be a later_.

Unsurprisingly, Palpatine hissed his sentiments, a scowl stretching his lips into a gruesome glower, “So this is treason, then.”

Dooku only laughed, unclipping his saber with a swirl of his cape, “It is not treason to balance the Force.”

What happened next was a blur of chaos. There was one still, crystallized moment suspended between breaths – and then the rumble of stampeding feet evacuating the enormous chamber, a wash of background noise to Obi-Wan’s static-filled ears as he pushed himself atop the pod’s edge, igniting his saber along with both Sith. Somewhere, perhaps high above the chaos and out of ostensible reach, this transition was being recorded for broadcast.

It was one of those intrusive thoughts that was a product of shedding distractions, easily pushed aside as he used the Force to propel himself to the Chancellor’s pod hovering in the middle of the vast expanse. Clones – the ones that Shaak had not been able to extract from Palpatine- _Sidious_’ grasp – filtered into the emptied pods, firing upon Dooku and himself. He acted as a momentary shield, utilizing the cultivated strengths of Soresu to protect Dooku as the other man parried and struck at Sidious.

He felt like a conduit to the Force, an electrified wire that shot through heart to saber. The bolts were deflected with the ease of guided intuition, striking none of the men ordered to fire upon them. Between the whir of ignited, infinitely looping plasma as blood-red sabers crossed swords, Obi-Wan heard Palpatine shout, “Execute order 66!”

Despite knowing that the Coruscant Guard was not a large enough contingent to trouble the Temple, the fact that they were so carelessly tossed onto the Jedi’s waiting sabers stoked the smouldering coal of rage that had sat so heavily since the Kaminoans introduced him to the mass of clones raised in such an emotionless, sterile environment. Dooku seemed to sense the upswelling of anger, smoothly trading spaces and occupying himself with yanking blasters away.

Soresu, while a primarily defensive form, was in capable hands lethal. Obi-Wan pulled out every trick he knew, weaving in Makashi, a modified Ataru, and others to throw Sidious off as often as possible. He managed some cauterized slices across the other’s arms, and a lucky jab near Sidious’ knee. The indignant hiss was a fine reward, though he had no time to enjoy it, attention riveted to the slash and thrust of his opponent’s saber.

Obi-Wan was abruptly maneuvered away from Sidious, a movement quick enough that he had bent to the press of the Force, and saw Dooku’s own saber lock with his Sith master’s a scant hand span from where Obi-Wan’s midsection was only a moment ago. Were it not for their alliance – temporary for all that he hoped it would cement to endurance – the cold glare would have made him reconsider such close proximity with Dooku. A bolt interrupted, trying for a lucky break, and the spell breaks as he whirled around to deflect it with a frustrated grimace.

It seemed the mood had tipped with that gesture, for Sidious abruptly jumped pod, using the Force to send them spinning in the opposite direction. They scrambled, intuiting that they ought to capitalize upon the Force to stabilize themselves. Attempting to spin the pod in the opposite direction helped only a little, the effort it needed adding to the nausea that the centrifugal force induced. Between he and Dooku, they managed to abate the worst of it, reaching for the same pod still locked in its dock. The Chancellor’s pod crashed below them, a screech of metal and electronics that made Obi-Wan wince.

With cramping fingers, Obi-Wan skittered on the smooth metal sides, extinguishing his saber to free up his other hand. Dooku did the same, and they hauled themselves aboard the pod with subdued pants from the exertion. The size of the speaking hall forbid easy sight of Sidious, but it did not take them long to find the slash of fluorescent red hopping pods across from them. Dooku leaned forward, gazing down the abyss barring access to the other Sith and frowning.

Keeping one eye on Sidious, he cast a curious look at his grand master, “Is there something down there?”

A redundant question if taken literally, but Dooku merely hummed in discontent. “I never liked this many senators,” he complained, switching his saber to the other hand, “They always cause problems.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, but followed the man’s posture, intrigued to see what he was up to. Their position them granted them little more than a temporary relief from the clone troopers, but he followed suit by switching his saber around as well.

Resisting the urge to press a thumb at his temple, he quipped, “Any moment now.”

“Patience, patience,” chided Dooku, pulling wisps of the Force to him in concentration. It tangled delicately, coalescing into a build-up that Obi-Wan swore breached to the visible realm. Static touched the man’s fingers, a ball of light webbing itself into existence – a comforting buffer to Sidious’ infernal presence. Feeling a bit awed, Obi-Wan felt the responding hum of his saber, slumbering though it currently was. After Dooku seemed to be satisfied about the density of his creation, he sighed out a wordless murmur, the Force flexing nauseatingly.

Obi-Wan scarcely had time to blink as the ball abruptly disappeared. At the other end, where Sidious was suddenly scrambling with wild swings of his saber, there was a disorienting _pop_, electronics blowing with a dramatic crackling of lightning. The dots connected rather quickly, and his gaze swung to the man beside him with an astounded gape, “Did you just-”

“I did,” Dooku confirmed smugly, igniting his saber with a flourish. He looked back at his grandpadawan, smirking, “Shall we?”

Nodding faintly, Obi-Wan jumped up to the edge of the pod, thinking, _I have got to learn that_.

* * *

After that spectacular display, meeting a snarling Sidious trying to disguise his errant limp by spitting curses and frenzied slashes of his blade was encouraging. Obi-Wan felt invigorated. The Force was with them, a solid presence against his back, and by Dooku’s side they were wearing down the tyrant who sought to cripple the galaxy. Though he panted, feeling the burn of exertion, Obi-Wan knew that Sidious’ presence was slowly unravelling, bleeding into the ether with each successful blow etched by himself and Dooku.

They had jumped to yet another pod, moving quickly enough that the bolts were always falling just slightly behind their shadows, trading off parries and thrusts as they slipped through the oozing haze Sidious’ rage was exuding. Beside him, Dooku was only just beginning to flag, choosing to take himself instead as bait with quick thrusts of Makashi forcing Sidious to remain in close quarters with him. It infuriated the erstwhile Chancellor – Obi-Wan had noticed that his fighting style was deceptively generous on space, and being locked in with a master of confined space was a vulnerability he believed the Sith had never thought to cover.

Obi-Wan had just begun to drag the distracted Sidious into a choke-hold with the Force, relishing the flickering sense of evil emitting from the other man as he tightened his grip with iron-bound determination and a narrowed focus, when Dooku reared back – and, it seemed a moment later, rather prudently so. A rather heavy globe collided with Sidious square onto his head, breaking the Force-powered grip Obi-Wan had out of startlement.

He jerked forward, extinguishing his saber instinctively as he wobbled on the edge of the neighboring pod. Dooku stepped over the fallen Sidious, reaching a steadying arm toward him. He took it gratefully, forcing his weary limbs to cooperate as he lumbered over the edge of the pod.

Lying with a thin coating of blood on its resplendent surface, a globe of some planet Obi-Wan was too fatigued to identify greeted them. Careful to avoid the astonishingly limp figure of Sidious, he stepped forward, peering at the damage the item had wrought. The Force echoed what his eyes told him – an unsettling, abrupt absence of Sidious’ presence, disorienting in the amount of Light now surrounding them. He looked toward Dooku, nodding with a shrug, “That _would_ do it.”

They paused in contemplation at the strange turn of events, grateful for the momentary lull to cool their heels and catch their breath. A moment was all they were granted, however, when their attention was drawn slightly upward.

“Hello there,” A familiar voice greeted them. Obi-Wan glanced up to the pod above them, just barely able to see Mon’s spotlight-haloed head some meters above them, “Are you two well?”

He was taken aback by the stunning vision, unable to do more than stare baldly at the newest entrant to their impromptu battlefield. It was his grandmaster who took up the helm of returning conversation, something he threw an amused look at Obi-Wan for, and sketched a courtly bow.

“Senator Mothma,” Dooku greeted her, nodding approvingly, “A pleasure to meet someone with such fine aim.”

“The pleasure is mine,” She called out, “To join in such a splendid battle. Is he dead?”  
  
Obi-Wan was able to unstick his tongue for this one, “Quite. What planet was that?”

“Chandrila herself.” Chuffed smugness radiated from her, and she nodded, barely visible by the fragmenting rays of light, “I had to return to my office for that one – only thing heavy enough to resemble a smashball.”

He and Dooku shared a glance, raising an eyebrow apiece. “Not every day you find a senator like that,” Dooku murmured to him with a significant look, “Wherever did you find such a charming woman?”

“In a rebellion,” Obi-Wan replied wryly, nodding at Dooku’s considering second look at Mon.

When Mon looked ready to speak again – and abruptly he remembered that they never answered her original question, something only noticed when Dooku’s cloak swept over evidence of saber burns – Dooku spoke. “Well,” he said, loudly enough to be heard by both parties, “It would be rude to keep a lady waiting.”

He was about to voice protest, concerned over the extent of the other man’s injuries, when he was pinned by a scolding look. “It is one day, Obi-Wan,” Dooku admonished, “Take your rest; I shall deal with the unpleasantness of politics.”

Startled once again, Obi-Wan nodded in acquiescence with a faint flush on his face, ignoring his protesting body to launch himself to the pod Mon had chosen to attack from, a wide grin breaking through on his face. Her reciprocal smile was pleased, warmth glittering in her eyes. The Force moved around her, heavy with rightness. “That was magnificent,” Obi-Wan declared, heedless of the doubtlessly still-circulating news drones as he drew a hand close to envelop her slender, Force-bright form within his arms, “_You_ were magnificent.”

Mon settled into the folds of his robes for a moment, a sigh loosing quietly from her. They rocked slightly, back and forth, content to savour the quantifiable proof that the other was safe and sound after the admittedly intimidating day. Obi-Wan pressed her close, briefly, before smoothing a hand up her back to coax them apart.

“The Temple?” He asked, casting her a concerned look, “Is everyone well?”

She nodded. “Nothing more than a few put-out guards,” Mon promised, an edge of humor to her smirk, “We managed to stop the Senate Guard before they could leave the building.”

The news was impressive, and he beamed at her, knowing that her deft hand had orchestrated the – relatively – bloodless coup. He cast a glance over his shoulder, turning slightly to get a better view of his grandmaster. Dooku was preoccupied with a call, directing some droids that Mon must have brought with her, undoubtedly to handle the matter of a recently deceased Sith Lord and ousted Chancellor. His gaze was met with the other man, and Obi-Wan had the faint impression of an eye-roll as he was imperiously waved off.

With a bemused huff, he faced Mon again, offering his arm to her, “I believe that would be our cue.”

Mon, straight-backed and a port of poise, accepted his arm with a graceful nod of agreement, “I do believe that is.”

And if, once firmly out of sight of the news drone’s purview, they returned to another hug with an excited, disbelieving laugh… well. Obi-Wan certainly enjoyed the hope fluttering in his chest at the way Mon found an excuse to linger within touching distance as aides and Jedi alike demanded debriefings, impatient to leap into the pleasantly uncertain future she was inviting him into.

_Traitor, traitor_. Now, though, the Force did not hiss so much as hum contentedly in its irony. Beside him, Mon had the rosy flush of planned victory so flawlessly pulled off.

He murmured back to the Force, a hand on Mon’s back to help part the waves in front of them, _Traitor, traitor_.

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a taken from [mandoa.org](http://mandoa.org/minimal/):  
_Resolnare_ – Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life  
_Alor_ – Leader, chief, *officer*, constable, boss  
_Adenn_ – Merciless  
_Beskar_ \- Mandalorian iron  
_Buy'ce_ \- Helmet  
_Mandokar_ \- The *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life  
_Vod'e_ \- Brothers, comrades  
[Balmgrass](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Balmgrass) – A grass native to Chandrila; I’ve interpreted it to be similar to lemongrass, and ran with that idea for a perfume native to Mon’s home planet, something similar to _[L'Air Des Alpes Suisses](https://www.fragrantica.com/perfume/Tauer-Perfumes/L-Air-Des-Alpes-Suisses-56977.html)_.
> 
> And yeah, it turns out that Mon Mothma [played smashball as a teenager](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mon_Mothma#Early_life). I imagine it to be some sort of dodgeball/rugby mix, but with something similar to a small medicine balls. [It's certainly been described as a violent sport](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Smashball/Legends), and that both Dooku and Qui-Gon have played it. Make of this information what you will.
> 
> There's surprisingly no way to calculate travel times canonically, and for the scene where Obi-Wan is travelling back to Coruscant, I've taken liberties with the Sabotage episode that follows immediately after The Lawless. Because of this, I've pegged his starting point as Cato Neimoidia. The stats pulled from Star Wars Combine's [Navcomputer](https://www.swcombine.com/navcomp/index.php) helped immensely in plotting out the finer points of that scene, with some rough data as follows:
>
>> Cato Neimoidia to Coruscant: Approximate Travel Time: 3 days, 3 hours, 12 mins. 15 parsecs to a coordinate square; 1 parsec = 3.26 light years
> 
> As for the incredibly vague message Dooku sent Obi-Wan, it's pulled from a quote from the Analects of Confucius:
>
>> 非其鬼而祭之，諂也。見義不為，無勇也。
> 
> I've gotten some varying definitions on this one, but [Wikiquote](https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Confucius#Chapter_II) has cited these two that I've used as inspiration of sorts:
> 
>   * "To worship to other than one's own ancestral spirits is brown-nosing. If you see what is right and fail to act on it, you lack courage."
>   * "To see what is right, and not to do it, is want of courage or of principle."
> 
> Only the first part was directly paraphrased, while Dooku snuck in the second with some added spaces that would only show up if highlighted. 鬼 may also be translated as not only "ghost", but also "sinister plot" or "dirty trick" - if Google Translate is of any value, albeit in the form of 鬼把戏. This isn't a language I claim any familiarity with, so if corrections are needed, please let me know!


End file.
